Resonant Dissonance
by WordsConsumeHer
Summary: When a mysterious musical score lands in Severus' postbox, he finds himself lured to a northern Canadian town to perform its evocative solo... and finds more than he bargained for. NC-17 SS/HP AU
1. The Accident

**Chapter 1: The Accident**

A black, airport limousine snaked its way up the two lane highway, through walls of granite that had been blasted away to accommodate the smooth asphalt. In places, the jagged cliffs of marbled stone rose imposingly alongside the road; just beyond them, the early morning light played off the surface off the seemingly never-ending lakes. The waning, fall colours covered stands of oak, birch and maple trees, with only the deep hue of evergreens that nestled between their deciduous brethren providing any sort of contrast among the golds, oranges and reds.

Severus had to admit, it was a beautiful country.

It had been a long trip; eight hours across the Atlantic, two hours to navigate his way through Pearson Airport in Toronto, and now the three-hour ride north to the rustic area of Muskoka, a land dappled with cottages and lake-country charm. Long trips were not something Severus enjoyed, but the invitation to this particular conference had been so intriguing and unexpected, he had found himself booking a flight with barely a second thought. Perhaps he was just tired of the hustle and bustle of London, and the increasingly familiar sights of Berlin and Paris.

But the real allure, the reason he was here, was for the music – even though the thought of playing the solo at the closing performance was mildly terrifying. Severus had never been one to seek the spotlight on his own. But this solo – _this _particular piece – had been enough to convince a stubborn, set-in-his-ways, professional horn player to get off his arse and travel halfway around the world.

The limo turned off the highway and wound its way through a picturesque main street before pulling up to the conference centre.

Taking a deep breath, Severus gathered his instrument from where it had sat snugly beside him, and stepped out into the brisk, late-autumn air.

_Being the soloist certainly has it perks_, Severus thought as he made his way through the silent auditorium to take a seat on the stage. His performance was not for another three days, yet the stage manager had offered him an hour to practice in the hall, uninterrupted, to get a feel for the acoustics. It was mostly in vain, though, as the acoustical properties of the room would be dramatically altered once the rest of the orchestra and the audience were seated in it. It's what made playing in new venues thrilling; to learn each building's specific character, and how the sound changed when it was bounced and absorbed in unpredictable ways.

Still, it was glorious to be here alone, to hear the steady click of his shoes across the black stage floor, and the _whomp_ of the lights as they came on in the dark room. The spotlight glinted off his horn as he settled himself on a chair and raised the mouthpiece to his lips.

He closed his eyes and allowed the rich tones to leave his horn and fill the large auditorium. Severus played some long notes, some scales and arpeggios before bursting into Wagner, Strauss and anything else that tickled his fancy at that moment. It was glorious, and he revelled in the sound that emanated from his lips as it passed through the brass tubes, finally bursting from the flared bell into the space around him. These were the moments that Severus lived for.

Lowering the horn, he placed a sheet of music on the stand in front of him. Not that he needed it; he'd had the solo memorized for weeks.

It was odd how this had all come about, really. One day Severus was playing second chair French Horn for the Berlin Symphony – amid a great many other notable musicians, he might add – and the next thing he knew, a new score arrived in his post with an exclusive invitation to play in Canada. The idea of transatlantic travel didn't particularly appeal, but Canada was one colony he'd never been to and the mysterious nature of the invitation had piqued his curiosity.

Of course, there was also the small matter of the piece itself.

It was written by James Evans, a hot, young composer that had exploded on the scene out of nowhere. Severus had gone from not knowing of the man's existence to frequently playing concerts that highlighted a minimum of one of his scores.

Nobody seemed to know anything about him, though. From what Severus had heard, Evans had made it big in America writing commissions for the large symphony orchestras in the Midwest. News of his talent had quickly leapt across the pond, and all of the sudden, James Evans' music was everywhere, including – and wasn't this a curious thing – Severus' postbox.

The piece he had been sent was beautiful. It was contemporary, but not so modern as to be unpleasant. It contained fresh, unexpected elements that he found to be simple, raw and unpretentious, yet deftly balanced with dark, brooding, magnificent sweeps of melody.

It was, quite possibly, the most exquisite piece of music that Severus had ever played.

He sounded the first few notes, rich dissonant intervals that sent a shiver up his long spine, until a creak off to his left startled him. He peered up at the stage door, but the lights from overhead obscured his vision and he couldn't make out more than the vague outline of a person standing there. The outline froze, aware that they had been caught, then quickly turned and left, allowing the stage door to close behind them.

Severus squinted a moment longer before returning the horn to his lips and continuing to play.

After the hour was up, he stood and made his way to the back of the stage where his coat and instrument case awaited him. He didn't notice the loose cable on the floor in his path, and it barely registered when his toe caught on it and sent him sprawling face-first onto the smooth, black surface of the stage.

Stars swam in his vision as his lungs refused to take in air. Something hard was pressed up into his ribs, adding an unfamiliar pain to the already winded feeling he was fighting so hard not to panic about. Rolling onto his side, he managed to draw in an agonizing breath before looking down to see what had attempted to lodge itself into his midsection.

His horn.

Her bell was crumpled like crushed wings on a butterfly, and Severus could already see that her slides were dented and one of her rotors out of joint. Fighting the urge to vomit, he carefully scooped up his instrument, his most prized possession, and cradled it like a child.

If Severus Snape had been capable of shedding tears, he would have wept.

Time passed, though how much, he couldn't be sure. All Severus knew was that at some point he was being shaken to awareness by a young woman with hazel eyes and long, auburn hair.

"Oh my goodness, Mr. Snape, are you alright?" she asked him worriedly.

With a glazed expression on his face, all Severus could do was nod, then shake his head, then stare down at the crumpled brass in his arms.

The hazel-eyed girl – 'Kristin R., Light Board Operator', according to her lanyard – drew in a sharp breath.

"Your horn!" Kristin exclaimed, then looked around quickly, shielding her eyes from the lights. "Laura? Are you in yet?" she called into the darkness.

"Yeah?" An edgy, female voice came through the speakers as the lights in the sound booth came on, revealing another young woman. A magenta stripe accented her black haircut. "What'cha got for me?"

"Can you find Harry?" she asked as she helped Severus up. "We are in need of his services – pronto."

Laura nodded from the booth and began paging someone over the theatre's sound system, the name 'Harry Potter' ringing in Severus' consciousness as he placed his battered horn back in her case.

"That was fast!" Kristin remarked fewer than fifteen minutes later, when a breathless man in a quilted, plaid jacket popped into the green room where Severus was sitting in a state of shock.

Harry grinned, ruefully, and ran a hand through his unkempt black hair. "Yeah, I was in the area. Just dropping off some stuff to the front desk. You know, music stuff."

Harry's crisp British accent shocked Severus out of his trauma-induced stupor. How was it possible that the one man who could help him would just happen to be his countryman? Furrowing his brow, he tried to place the accent. It was not nearly as formal as Severus' own, which made it slightly harder to place.

"London?" he mused aloud, before inwardly reprimanding himself for his carelessness.

Harry grinned. "Surrey, actually, but close enough. Your accent is trickier, though. Somewhere north?"

"Manchester," Severus acknowledged, nodding, "You've a good ear."

"So I've been told," Harry said, as an odd sort of smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

Severus noted that Kristin seemed to be blushing slightly in Harry's presence, and he knew that the accent probably played no small part in that. He supposed there were other reasons as well. Although by no means tall, Harry had the sort of presence that filled the room. He was broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and a quick smile. Severus also supposed she appreciated Harry's eyes, which were an almost unnatural shade of green. Despite not being familiar at all with the inner-workings of a woman's mind, Severus knew females tended to notice things like that.

_He_ had certainly noticed.

Shaking the thought out of his head, Severus rose from his seat and extended his hand to this man who was apparently the Saviour of the Instrumental World.

"Mr. Potter, I presume? Severus Snape."

The hand that shook his was calloused and firm and it was attached to a body that smelled comfortingly like wood smoke and pine.

Harry smiled. "Likewise, Mr. Snape. I believe you're playing the solo on Friday evening? I saw your name in the programme."

Severus cringed slightly, and relinquished the warm hand so that he could turn around and pick up the reason for Harry's visit.

"I'm _supposed_ to be playing it," he agreed, almost sadly, "but I'm not sure I'll be doing it on – _this."_

Harry winced as he looked at the crumpled piece of brass in Severus' hands, but then nodded his head confidently. "It looks bad, I know, but I can fix her if you're willing to trust me."

Staring into those hypnotic, green eyes, Severus knew he would trust Harry Potter with just about anything.


	2. Repair and a Cup of Tea

**Chapter 2: Repair and a Cup of Tea**

The drive to Harry's workshop – which was attached to his home – had been a relatively quick one, only thirty minutes. Then again, after the fifteen or so hours Severus had spent travelling the day before, anything would have seemed quick to him.

Gravel from the driveway crunched under the tires of Harry's slightly rusty GMC pickup as they pulled up to the small, wood-paneled bungalow. It was seated on the edge of a small, placid lake, a near-forest of majestic evergreens circling the far boundary. Bypassing the cottage itself, Harry led Severus around the back to a large, heated workshop where he immediately set to work on his 'patient'.

Harry hummed to himself as his compact, yet nimble hands worked the crumpled brass of the horn over the roller. Lovingly, caressingly, he smoothed it out to its original curved form, pausing occasionally to run his fingers across its shiny surface. A smile flicked across his face and he nodded to himself, content that the work was true.

Severus watched the master with rapt attention from his seat across the workbench. Observing this man had given him new appreciation for the art that was instrument repair – and it was truly an art. The term "technician" could not have described Harry as he took the horn over to a buffing wheel and ran it across the polishing surface. Those deft hands held the instrument firmly, but gently, as he slowly turned it and erased any evidence of damage.

Holding the bell to the light, Harry scrutinized his work before giving a final nod of satisfaction, then turned back to his client. "I'll have to apply a new coat of lacquer to her, but once it cures, you shouldn't even notice the repair. I suppose if you look really hard, you'll be able to see a slight difference between the factory lacquer and what I'm going to do, but short of stripping it down to raw brass and taking it somewhere to be electrostatically coated, it's the best I can do."

Severus nodded slowly as he stood and walked towards Harry, his eyes on the horn. That instrument had been his one true companion for most of his life, and the relief that swept through him was beyond tangible. Reaching out a long, pale finger, he traced the newly-repaired bell with awe.

"Careful, she's hot," Harry warned him, his voice soft.

Severus' fingers moved to the un-lacquered portion of the horn. The friction of the buffer had left the metal quite warm to the touch, and the instrument felt almost alive. Severus didn't even notice that a small smile had formed on his lips as he admired the workmanship, and he was shocked when a reflection in the brass smiled back at him.

Two reflections, actually.

The green of Harry's eyes was still obvious in the mirror of the yellow brass. In the reflection, their glances met. "What's her name?" Harry asked quietly.

Severus started momentarily. How had Harry known he'd named the horn? A quick rush of embarrassment flushed his pale cheeks.

Harry chuckled softly. "Don't be embarrassed. Mine are Sophia, Leslie, Grace and George."

Severus' eyebrow shot up as he turned his head. "George?"

Potter laughed outright. "George is a big bastard. You'll understand when you see him." His eyes twinkled as his mouth broke into a lopsided grin. "Let's get this girl lacquered up, shall we? She's going to need at least twenty-four hours to cure."

"Penelope." Severus said, almost under his breath.

Harry smiled warmly. "Penelope. Pretty name."

Penelope was in the workshop, curing, while her owner was settled comfortably on a worn sofa in Harry's living room. A fire burned brightly in the stone-lined fireplace.

"I always like to have the fire going," Harry had explained. "Canada is beautiful but it's a good deal colder than England."

That was half an hour ago, and as if to prove his point, the heavens had opened and began to drop an alarming amount of snow. Seeing that a trip back to the resort was unwise at this time, Harry had shrugged and offered Severus a cup of tea.

"You're a man of simple comforts, aren't you, Mr. Potter?"

"Oh, God, call me Harry, please." He scowled good-naturedly as he marched back into the living room holding two steaming cups. "Nobody's called me 'Mr. Potter' since I was in boarding school. It always reminds me of being rapped across the knuckles with a ruler." He shuddered slightly as he handed Severus the mug of rooibos.

Smirking, Severus accepted the cup. "Troublemaker, were we?" he asked, taking a sip.

Harry grinned. "I'd like to think I still am, frankly. Makes me feel young."

Severus rolled his eyes. Harry couldn't have been a day over thirty to look at him, but of course, he could be wrong. The young man had certainly lived a lot in the years he'd spent on this Earth; it was obvious in everything from his comportment to his living arrangements. A mishmash of travel photos lined every available shelf and surface of his living room, images of Harry in various cities around the world. Severus recognized London (of course), Prague, Belfast, Tokyo, New York and Sydney, to name a few. There were dozens of them, all showing Harry with his casual smile and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Severus' eyes flicked to what he assumed was the most recent photo, a picture of Harry looking much as he did now, standing on the Toronto waterfront with the CN Tower visible in the background. "You're a wanderer, I see."

Harry smiled. "Not all those who wander are lost," he said, shrugging. "Just looking for a place to call home, I s'pose. I left the UK at seventeen and never looked back." His eyes took on a vacant, wistful expression as he sipped his tea carefully. The firelight danced off his features, warming the tone of his skin and highlighting his dishevelled hair.

"What of your family?" Severus asked.

"Haven't any. I was an only child, parents died when I was a baby. The boarding school was my home until I graduated. Then I just... left."

"I'm sorry." Severus wasn't sure if he was apologizing for the boy's unfortunate-sounding childhood or the fact what that he, an utter stranger, had asked him to divulge such information. Severus liked to avoid personal conversations, usually for this very reason.

Harry shook his head as if the two simple words had broken a trance. He glanced up at Severus and smiled. "No need to be sorry. That school is the reason I found music, my calling. This," – he swept his arm towards the picture frames – "_this_ is just what became of it. I went everywhere to study and apprentice. I repaired with the best in Tokyo, France, the US, you name it; opportunities I never would have had if something had tied me to one place." He stood up and crossed the room, returning with a worn frame. Inside was a Polaroid of Harry as a teenager, holding a small rucksack in one hand and what looked like a plane ticket in the other. The white frame of the picture had the word "Freedom – 1998" scrawled across the bottom in what Severus could only assume was Harry's own hand.

"_That,"_ Harry said triumphantly, "was the day I graduated. Just me, two changes of clothes and Sophia and I were off to Japan."

"George must have been very jealous," Severus deadpanned.

Harry laughed. "He's not the jealous type. Besides, I didn't get George until I was twenty-one." He reached down to take the picture frame back from Severus, who had unknowingly been gripping it tightly.

Their fingertips brushed, and both men drew a sharp in-take of breath at the electricity it shot up their arms. Regaining his composure first, Harry simply grinned curiously and plopped himself on the sofa next to his guest.

Turning so that his back was against the armrest, Harry took a sip of his tea before asking, "So, tell me about this solo of yours."

Severus blinked at the abrupt change of topic, his mind still focused on the tingling sensation their brief contact had left in his hand. Not wanting to seem too affected by it, however, he cleared his throat and began his tale.


	3. Magic Wands

**Chapter 3: Magic Wands**

The snow continued to fall in thick clumps, piling on the windowsills and blanketing the drive in a lush cover of whiteness. Though it was painfully obvious to both men that neither of them would be going anywhere before morning, each cautiously avoided the subject of exactly where Severus was to spend the night.

Instead, they enjoyed the simple supper of spaghetti that Harry threw together, along with a couple of glasses of a rich, red wine that Harry proudly informed Severus was local. (Well, it was from the same province, though Severus argued that vineyards several hundred kilometres away hardly counted as "local" in his books. Harry had laughed and informed him that he'd have to modify his definition of "local" in a country so large that all of England and Scotland could be swallowed up in its lakes.)

The fire was stoked and re-stoked several times. The conversation, though sparse, was good; the silences, companionable. The wine appeared to be never-ending, though both men seemed to be taking precautions to not become _too_ inebriated.

It took Severus by surprise when, late into the night, Harry grabbed him by the hand and gently hauled him off of the couch.

"I want to show you something," Harry said, dragging his guest down the short hallway to where Severus nervously assumed the bedrooms were. Sure enough, on the right side of the hall was a small bedroom furnished with a large, oak bed and matching dresser.

But Harry did not pull him into that room; rather, they entered a door on their left.

Severus took in the room in quiet disbelief. "Another workshop?"

Harry smiled, dragging him into the centre of it. "I have many workshops for many types of work," he informed him proudly. "The shop out back is for instruments, and the shop in _here_ is for–"

"–batons," Severus finished for him, eyeing the workbench covered in fine carpenter's tools and roughly-hewn sticks of wood. At the end of the bench sat three glass display cases, each home to dozens of polished wood tapers.

Slowly, reverently, Severus approached the cases, and with a wave of encouragement from Harry, opened one of the glass doors. "I one day hope to be a conductor," Severus admitted, carefully touching one of the smooth wooden shafts, "but I had no idea such a selection of batons existed."

Harry's mouth quirked in surprise. "Conductor? Really..." He trailed off as he watched Severus' fingers hover over the batons, pausing over some of them longer than others.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Harry informed him, smiling ruefully. "I read that in a book somewhere." Opening the other two glass-fronted cabinets carefully, he shot Severus a smile that could almost be interpreted as shy, before indicating the batons. "Try them out," he offered. Then, at Severus' obvious reluctance, he smiled and added, "Please, I insist."

Severus stared at the assortment of slender sticks in astonishment. There were several dozen of them ranging in length from twelve to eighteen inches, some a light, natural, varnished wood and some painted a bright white. They lay on black velvet shelves which complemented the various exotic wood handles. He reached out and gingerly plucked a baton from the display.

Harry nodded in satisfaction. "Fourteen inches, pear-shaped, zebrawood handle." He watched intently as Severus laid it across his finger, right where the handle joined the shaft. The baton lay still across the pivot point and remained parallel to the ground.

"Perfect balance," Severus mused, as if to himself. He took the baton in his right hand and gave it a few experimental swishes through the air. "It's lovely."

Behind his square-rimmed glasses, Harry's brow furrowed. "Maybe, but it's not right for you." He took the baton from Severus's fingers and placed it back in the case. Intent green eyes scanned the display case before resting on another wand.

Harry pressed the smooth bulb of the baton into Severus' palm, his calloused fingers folding Severus' gently over the wood handle. "Perfect fit," Harry murmured.

Once again, Severus gave the baton an experimental swish. It cut the air like butter.

"Sixteen inches, much better for someone of your height. The tapered handle works best for long, delicate fingers." Harry reached out and stilled Severus' hand for a moment, tracing his thumb across the pale digits. "And the purpleheart wood looks rich against your skin."

Severus watched in astonishment as Harry raised their joined hands to his mouth, tracing his lips across Severus' flesh. "So beautiful," Harry whispered, his breath warm against the cool skin of Severus' fingers, which had started to tremble almost imperceptibly. Harry's lips parted slightly and he drew the digits in farther, pressing his lips around them.

The baton clattered to the ground as Severus dragged Harry towards him, moaning softly. He pulled his hands away from Harry's mouth to make room for his lips and tongue, twisting his now unoccupied fingers in that unkempt, black hair. The glass doors of the baton case rattled as Harry moaned into his open mouth and pulled Severus against him, causing the two men to slam back into the workbench.

Grunts and moans were drowned out by the sound of tools rolling off the table and hitting the concrete floor in a symphony of clatters, clinks and thuds. Severus pushed Harry further back onto the bench until he got the hint and pulled himself onto the work surface, his knees spread so Severus could stand between his legs.

"Fuck, I fucking dreamed about this," Harry murmured breathlessly as Severus' lips traced across the stubble on Harry's jaw, nipping at his neck.

"You've known me a mere twelve hours," Severus scoffed in a low whisper before taking Harry's earlobe between his teeth.

Harry seemed to stiffen slightly underneath him before replying, "Oh, right. Just thought about sex on the bench. With a musician. Nobody specific." The explanation was lost on a gasp as Severus' hand reached up under Harry's flannel shirt and began roughly pinching his nipple.

Wordlessly, the two stripped each other of their shirts and tossed them carelessly into the corner of the workshop. Severus began to fumble with the slide on Harry's belt, inwardly cursing the man for not opting for a buckle that was easier to open with one hand.

Clearly sensing Severus' distress, Harry lowered a hand to his belt and freed it easily, the metal buckle making a quiet _swoosh _as it slid over the rough canvas. He then turned his attention to Severus' belt, which he undid singlehandedly, without a fumble. The button and zip on Severus' pants was no more of a challenge, and before they knew it, both of them had their trousers pushed down their hips and their firm cocks exposed to the cool air.

Severus had to wonder if this workbench had been purpose-built for sexual escapades. It seemed almost too perfect that, when standing, his erection was perfectly lined up with Harry's, who was still perched comfortably on the edge of the table. He reached down and gathered the two dripping cocks in his hand, wrapping his fingers around both of them.

Harry moaned as their precome-slicked erections were held in Severus' firm grasp and slowly stroked up and down. Shaky with need, Harry blindly felt around behind him and grasped a bottle of mineral oil that he likely used to treat his finished batons. He fumbled to get the cap off and poured the clear oil into Severus' pumping hand. The viscous liquid seeped between his fingers and around the swollen flesh of their cocks, allowing them to slide comfortably is his grip. Hot flesh rubbed against hot flesh and both men desperately sought release.

"How sturdy is this bench?" growled Severus, his voice thick with lust.

"Sturdy enough–" But Harry only managed to choke out half the reply before two hands shoved him back onto the surface of the workbench and Severus climbed on top of him.

Harry's hot, firm body felt so good underneath him that Severus didn't even notice the wood shavings and bits of debris that were digging into his knees. Instead, he could only focus on Harry's swollen lips begging for more abuse, and the glasses that sat askew on his face. Severus groaned and bent down to suck the man's neck, feeling Harry's pulse quicken against his mouth as his work-worn hands twisted in Severus' long, black hair.

The two rubbed against each other frantically, their oil-slicked cocks pressed between their bellies. Harry thrust his hips upwards, whimpering with need, every fibre of his being begging for more.

"Please," he grunted, "pleasepleasepleasefuckplease…"

Severus would have smirked at Harry's loss of control if he hadn't have been so completely understanding of it himself. His own balls were tightening as their thrusts got more frantic; if this was going to extend beyond frotting, Severus had to go for it now or he'd never last. He rubbed his hand between their bodies, coating his fingers in the thick oil before sliding his digits between Harry's taut buttocks.

A strangled cry escaped Harry's throat as he threw his head back and spread his legs in anticipation.

Severus gently but firmly slid a finger through the tight entrance and smiled as he felt Harry push back against him, fucking himself on Severus' hand. Encouraged, Severus slid in another finger.

Harry panted as the two fingers stroked him inside. "Holyfuck, holyfuck, holyfuck…" His back arched impossibly high off the table as he babbled. "I'm going to come!"

"Not yet you're not," Severus murmured in his most seductive voice. "Open your eyes and look at me as I slide my cock into your arse." He withdrew his fingers from Harry's body, causing the younger man to whimper at the sudden loss.

Harry's eyes flickered open for a moment before slamming shut again as the head of Severus' cock pressed eagerly against his arsehole. A guttural sound escaped Harry's throat.

"_Look at me_."

The impossibly green eyes opened and stared at him. They were glazed with pleasure, confusion and anticipation. Severus growled in satisfaction as Harry's eyes flashed with want, and he pushed forward, penetrating the tight ring of muscle, sinking into the body below him.

"Good boy," Severus murmured as Harry's eyes locked obediently on his own.

Harry whimpered through gritted teeth and pushed back against Severus, who promptly lost his barely-maintained control.

His thrusts came fast and rough, each stroke earning him a whimper from Harry that was louder and more needful than the last. Severus watched in rapt fascination as his oil-slicked cock mercilessly pounded Harry's body.

"Ohfuckohfuck... _god_, Severus, _please_–"

Harry's thighs clenched around him as he came with a violent cry, spurting come on both of their chests. Severus grunted and stilled, his own orgasm flooding into Harry in a series of pulses.

"Holy shit," Harry gasped, breathing hard as his lover collapsed on top of him. "Shit. No wonder you want to be a conductor."

Severus smiled against Harry's neck, delighting in the rough, firm hands that were now tracing circles on his sweaty back. "Why do you say that?"

Harry snorted. "Well, you certainly prefer to give instruction than take it, don't you?"

"Not that I'd expect you to understand," came the lazy, drawled reply, "but the conductor doesn't actually _give_ instruction, the composer does. The conductor merely... interprets it."

The hands on his back stilled momentarily before resuming their circular worship of his skin.

"S'pose you're right," murmured Harry. "What do I know?"


	4. The Solo

**Chapter 4: The Solo**

Severus was distracted. His bowtie felt altogether too tight and the tuxedo he wore was making him sweat profusely. Nervously, he ran his fingers over Penelope's freshly repaired bell and waited to take the stage he had once longed for.

Now the only place he wanted to be was back in bed with Harry Potter.

The freak snowstorm had left Severus and Harry in close quarters for two glorious days. Harry did eventually show Severus the bedroom, but they left it only to shower (together), relieve themselves (alone), and eat (together).

Now pacing backstage, his muscles complained loudly from their forty-eight hours of use, while his mind dreaded the thought of boarding a plane and heading back across the ocean.

Away from Harry.

"Five minutes to curtain, Mr. Snape," a familiar voice informed him.

He turned to see Kristin smiling at him encouragingly. He was about to ask why she wasn't in the light booth when he noticed her lanyard now had a peel-and-stick label that covered the area below her name. It read: 'Stage Director'.

"Promoted so soon?" he drawled, and she shrugged with a sheepish grin.

The conductor turned on his podium to address the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, the next piece you are about to hear is possibly one of the most beautiful and unique symphonic works I have ever had the pleasure of conducting. The solo was written for French Horn, which will be performed by the Berlin Symphony's own Mr. Severus Snape."

At this, Severus stood, taking a curt bow before settling himself back in his seat. He was grateful that the bright stage lights hid the audience from him, since there was no way he would be able to hide from them; as much as he enjoyed this solo, he preferred the anonymity of just being another voice in the ensemble.

The conductor's speech was perplexing. Severus was unused to being introduced before a piece, and frowned in confusion. Why was the conductor speaking at all? Did the audience not have programmes, or was this just some strange Canadian practice?

"I have just been informed," the conductor continued, "that the composer of this work is in the audience with us tonight, and I would ask that he grace us by conducting his piece. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. James Evans."

The thundering applause was no match for the pounding of Severus' heart. James Evans was here, in Canada, hours away from anything that could be called a city. His throat dried and his lips parted as he scoured the bright lights to get a glimpse of the man he had been nearly worshipping for months. Squinting, he saw a man in a tuxedo sheepishly walk to the front of the stage, climb the stairs and graciously accept the baton.

Severus' guts lurched as his eyes rested on a very familiar mop of black hair and sparkling green eyes.

Harry gave the audience a quick bow before turning to the orchestra. His eyes went directly to Severus, and with a slight shrug and a chagrined smile, he silently mouthed the word, "Hi."

James Evans.

Harry Potter was James-Fucking-Evans.

Bile and betrayal rose in Severus' throat as he silently begged the room to stop spinning. The heat from the stage lights seemed to sear his skin as his mind frantically tore through the events of the past forty-eight hours.

How could Harry not have told him? How could he have allowed Severus to fairly swoon over the mystery composer, without once letting on that it was in fact he, Harry, who had written those scores?

Flexing his fingers in an effort to prevent them from shaking any further, Severus stood, raised his horn to his lips, and waited for Harry's downbeat. Throughout the entire solo, Severus never once met the man's eyes.

"Severus, wait!" Harry called, his voice frantic.

Severus ignored him and threw open the stage door, storming out into the cold, late-autumn night.

"Severus, please, wait!"

The sound of someone running through the fresh, fallen snow was followed by a hand grabbing his shoulder, causing him to spin around.

"What do you want, Potter? Or should I say, _Evans_?" he snarled, clutching Penelope protectively to his thin chest.

"It's Potter," Harry said softly. "Harry Potter. James Evans is just my nom de plume. Please let me explain," he begged.

Severus snorted. "Explain what? That I spent two days with my cock up your arse and you didn't even have the decency to tell me who you were? You knew I was hired to play that solo, _your_ solo, and you allowed me to prattle on about how marvellous it was without batting an eye!"

"No, you don't underst–"

"I understand perfectly fine. You are just like every other composer I have ever dealt with: conceited, self-righteous and obsessed with praise! You think the sun shines out your bloody arse, don't you, _Evans_? Just another fucking celebrity!" He spun on his heel, careful to not let his leather-soled dress shoes slide beneath him as he trudged towards his waiting taxi.

"No, Severus, please..." Harry's voice was thick with emotion as he reached out to grasp the hem of the retreating wool coat. His fingers barely grazed it as Severus flung open the taxi door, settled himself inside, and promptly informed the driver to head back to Pearson Airport. It sped off before Harry could stop it, Severus offering nary a look behind.


	5. Unison

**Chapter 5: Unison**

Sweat dripped down his brow and onto the collar of his loose, silk shirt as he made his way to the small flat he was renting in Mumbai. Although India hadn't been number one on his list of places to work, the debacle in Canada had instilled in Severus a desperate need to get away from anywhere that was prone to snow. He had originally got work in Switzerland, but the rocky, pine-dotted landscape had reminded him too much of his time in Ontario, and he almost expected to see a rusty, GMC pickup around every turn in the road.

So, at the next available opportunity, he looked for work in Asia. But now that he was here, settling his sweat-soaked body into the wooden chair in his small kitchen, he remembered why he preferred the northern part of Europe, and wished he had opted to stay a little closer to home.

Sighing, he cracked the seal on his bottle of iced tea (an abomination, but the idea of hot tea made him perspire even more), and flipped the lid on his laptop to check his email.

After sifting through the advertisements for online pharmaceuticals and promises to increase his manhood, Severus stumbled upon an email from someone named Kristin Rainaud. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he tried to place the familiar name before clicking on the email. The letterhead was from the Elkhurst Resort and Conference Centre in Ontario.

Ah, yes. Kristin the light board operator, stage manager, accomplice of Harry-Fucking-Potter. Grimacing, he scrolled down the page.

_Dear Mr. Snape,_

_I found this article in Symphonic Quarterly and thought you may be interested. There is a lovely photo of you that you may wish to add to your portfolio of publicity shots._

_Furthermore, the owner of the Elkhurst Resort and Conference Centre was dismayed to hear of your fall at our facility, and would like to offer you a free, 7-night stay, including coverage of your airfare costs. _

_Thank-you again for staying with us, and we hope to see you soon!_

_Kristin Rainaud  
>Entertainment Coordinator<br>Elkhurst Conference Centre and Resort_

"Promoted again, I see, Miss Rainaud," Severus mused aloud as he opened the file she had attached.

A large, full-colour photo assaulted him as soon as the file finished downloading, and Severus was left breathless at the image. It was him, in profile, playing his beautiful, glossy Penelope. It must have been during the middle of his solo, for his eyes were closed and he was lost in the music.

The second subject in the photo was the tousled, black-haired conductor, a look of awe and reverence plastered across his handsome, young features.

It was Harry, of course.

The sight of him made Severus' stomach churn, and he very nearly sicked up what little iced tea he had drank. In that moment, Severus was glad he had played the solo with his eyes closed, because if he had seen that look on Harry's face – the look that had been directed at _him_ – he surely wouldn't have made it through the piece.

The article that followed the photo was an interview with James Evans, composer extraordinaire. Despite his better judgement, Severus began to read.

_SQ: Mr. Evans, rumour has it that this isn't your real name._

_JE: It's real enough, I suppose. No, it's not what it says on my birth certificate or my driver's registration, but James Evans is the composer, the man in the public eye._

_SQ: Why not just go by your real name?_

_JE: I'm not interested in that kind of attention. Not that composers get a lot of attention or anything, really. I mean, symphonic music certainly doesn't have the audience it used to. That being said, I want to be able to write my pieces and send them off into the world, while keeping my life at home quiet. My music took off unexpectedly, and I was glad for the nom de plume because it gave me a break from that life. I could sit at home and just be me, if I wanted, not James Evans, the composer._

_SQ: Surely people must have figured out who you are by now…_

_JE: Yes, well, you can't keep a secret like that forever. A few people know, surely. Unfortunately, some found out the hard way, before I had the chance to tell them myself._

Severus snorted in disdain. 'The hard way' indeed.

_SQ: So, Mr. Evans, tell me about the piece you premiered at the White North music festival last month._

_JE: Well, that piece was rather special to me. It's called "Devotion in Black" and I wrote it specifically for a French Horn player I had heard in Berlin._

Severus felt his heart stutter a beat in recognition, but simply cleared his throat and continued reading, brushing it off as a ridiculous coincidence.

_SQ: Do you mean Mr. Severus Snape, the soloist from this year's festival?_

_JE: Yes, Mr. Snape. I can't really explain it, and it may seem silly to anyone who hasn't heard the man play, but once I had the opportunity to hear him in Berlin, I knew I had to write something for him. He has this tone, it's gorgeous and rich, almost velvety. He plays with a raw sensuality that touches you to your very core. He's an incredibly complex player, and I wanted to write him a similarly complex piece. Something resonant, and dissonant. Something that would complement him perfectly and showcase his talent._

Severus' jaw dropped. It couldn't be possible. When the score had arrived on his doorstep in Germany, he hadn't even questioned who would hire him for that particular gig. He was so besotted with the music, he had been perfectly willing to up and travel halfway across the globe without so much as a second thought.

It made sense, in a strange way. No wonder the solo had resonated so deeply within him, had felt as if it had been written specifically for him – it _had_ been. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he continued to read the article.

_SQ: I've heard your next work also features French Horn. Will Mr. Snape be premiering this piece as well?_

_JE: I don't think Mr. Snape is particularly interested in playing another one of my pieces at the moment. _

_SQ: Well, was the score written with anyone in mind?_

_JE: Oh, yes. This particular score was written for a very special girl._

A sickening crunch broke the silence as Severus' laptop connected with the wall, sending keys flying everywhere. A _girl_? Harry-Fucking-Potter slash James-Goddamned-Evans had written his next piece for a _girl?_ Well wasn't that just sodding perfect!

Picking up his bottle of iced tea, he flung the plastic vessel against the wall as well, causing the liquid to drip down and seep across the broken remnants of his computer.

It was ridiculous, really, to assume that Harry would still think about him. He was a handsome young man; no doubt one with more than a few admirers. In fact, he had probably already bent Kristin over her light board before Severus was even on his plane home. Trying to shake the painful images from his head, he began to pace his small flat in irritation.

A knock at the door prevented him from wearing a trench right through the bamboo floors, and reluctantly, he ceased his pacing to answer it.

A young man in a courier's uniform stood in the hallway, a clipboard in one hand and a small parcel in the other.

"Severus Snape?" the courier asked in heavily accented English.

Severus merely glowered in reply, scribbling his name on the clipboard and snatching the box away before slamming the door in the courier's face.

Upon seeing the parcel marked with a return address of Elkhurst, Ontario, Severus promptly dropped it on his coffee table and let it sit for three days. It was only after he grew tired of staring at the plain, brown paper-wrapped parcel that he finally deigned to open it.

Inside was a thick stack of papers bound together in a cardboard cover.

Curiously, he folded back the cover to reveal a myriad of handwritten notes gracing staff paper. It was a symphonic score, and included in the manuscript was a part for French Horn – another solo, in fact. The piece was entitled, "Reflections in Penelope," and the composer had written his name in a familiar, cramped hand.

Harry Potter.

Not James Evans. _Harry Potter_.

Tracing the paper with a lone finger, Severus felt the indentation of each handwritten note. Each bar line, each rest, each key signature had been inked by Harry's own hand, and despite himself, Severus was soon humming the tune out loud.

It was only a matter of time before he found himself running to his instrument case and settling Penelope against his lips to play the haunting melody.

Not surprisingly, it was beautiful.

When the song was done, he rested the horn in his lap, her flared bell cradling his thigh. Absently, he stroked the smooth brass, as he was wont to do when lost in thought. He startled slightly when his finger felt a slight change in texture – the place where Harry had re-lacquered it months ago. Frowning, he peered down at the almost-invisible repair and caught his own reflection.

And remembered the day when a pair of startlingly green eyes had also stared back at him.

_Harry._

He rapped on the heavy, oak door, cursing himself for not thinking to wear a parka. Footsteps from inside the small dwelling grew louder until the door swung open to reveal its dishevelled resident.

"Harry," Severus began, hoping that Harry would attribute the tremor in his voice to the extreme cold, and nothing else.

Harry just stared at him, his face splashed with a variety of emotions. "You came," he whispered.

Rubbing his arms roughly, Severus nodded. "Straight from India, where I hadn't exactly packed for a Canadian winter."

"You came," Harry repeated, hope blooming on his face.

Severus shrugged. "I received your message." He reached into his shoulder bag and retrieved the small, cardboard box. Lifting the manuscript, he pulled out the carved, wooden case that had been nestled in packing materials underneath it, and opened it slowly, revealing the sixteen-inch baton and the small note that said, simply, "I'm sorry."

Delight in his eyes, Harry pulled Severus into a searing kiss and dragged him through the front door of his small cottage. "I thought you've never come," he moaned breathlessly between kisses.

Fumbling with a familiar plaid shirt, Severus growled into Harry's mouth, "I nearly didn't."

"Then what–?"

Toppling Harry onto the worn sofa, Severus smirked as he sat astride him. "Penelope insisted. You've gone and spoiled her now, and she simply refuses to perform for anyone else."

Harry grinned and pulled Severus' head down towards his lips. "Wait 'til she meets George."

A/N: Thank you to my beautiful friend, lovetoseverus, for once again being the best beta a girl could ask for.


End file.
